


Natural Habitat

by Anonymous



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Genderqueer James, Im just tagging the ships because theres allusion to them being in relationships, James uses she/her pronouns, Non-Sexual Age Play, local Victorians get to be littul for a bit, neurodivergent Goodsir maybe?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-13 07:33:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28649847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: It is a strange sight, yet so endearing, Alexander thinks to himself as he sits, gathering Harry into his lap.
Relationships: Francis Crozier/James Fitzjames, Harry D. S. Goodsir & Alexander McDonald, John Bridgens/Henry "Harry" Peglar
Kudos: 10
Collections: Anonymous





	Natural Habitat

**Author's Note:**

> In case you are confused:  
> this fic contains adult characters allowing themselves to play and be treated like children because they find it comforting. There is no mature content in this fic but I've put it under 'Teen and Up' regardless because it is an 'unusual' topic I suppose.  
> I know there is an autistic Goodsir tag, but I'm fairly neurotypical and could not tell whether it would be appropriate here, so I went with neurodivergent, I hope thats alright!

"Henry, darling. We'd better give you something to eat, you must be so hungry."

Henry Peglar does not complain when Bridgens gently shoos him up from where he was so busy creating some fantastic structure out of building-blocks. The younger man just sets the last block on the pile, then stretches his arms out at Bridgens who plucks him up from the carpet like he barely weighs anything.

"James, Jamie, love, how about a little something to eat?", Francis attempts for his dearest. James at first shakes her head, the ribbon in her hair shimmering gently with the motion. She is presently occupied with her trinket-box, has rearranged the contents. She takes that business very seriously.  "Not even a biscuit?", Francis beckons her. "some grapes, hmm?" He rubs her back, slow and soothing. "a nice warm tea? I'll get the darling little cup for you."

That seems to do the trick; James perks up instantly, reminded of the small cup Francis brought home from the market a while ago; small as if fit for a doll, with little daisies painted onto the porcelaine. She loves it so.

"Well, come here my girl. Let's go find it, then."

James grasps his hand eagerly, and Francis is swelling with pride as they make their way to the cabinet, past Dr. Goodsir- well,  _ Harry _ , who is still completely absorbed in his quiet play with a few wooden and ivory figurines, whittled animal shapes.  Dr. MacDonald has made his way over to him, squatting next to where he is sat.

"So, Harry, it's time for a little dinner now. You've been playing all afternoon.", Alexander tells him, softly.  Goodsir does not react- he is moving a figurine with his hand, cowering over the carpet like a cat as he lets the animal - MacDonald fancies it a caribou or deer- explore the expanse of the patterned carpet.

"Harry, dear, are you listening?"

Evidently, he is not, as the caribou seems to have found a waterhole, where it is now scraping down its hoof and dunking its snout into a light-coloured patch of carpet.  "Harry, dear, we'll go have some dinner now. I'll pick you up, hm?"  Alexander places his hand upon his back, slow and careful, and pulls the man towards himself. Even as he picks him up, Goodsir barely pays notice - the caribou transitions from watering hole to a rocky pressure ridge in no time, walking along Alexander's vest, from button to button as he carries Harry to the table, where the others are already seated with their protegés.  It is a strange sight, yet so endearing, Alexander thinks to himself as he sits, gathering Harry into his lap, and reaches one handedly for a plate so he can load it with pieces of fruit, with anything from the generous table that he thinks Harry might enjoy.  Opposite to him, Mr. Bridgens - John - is watching his boy fumble with fork and knife, labouring over a piece of meat he insisted he'd cut himself- until now, when he puts the utensils down and shyly pushes the plate towards John.  Alexander decides on something safe first; something he knows Harry likes. A piece of sliced orange, the perfect size to eat comfortably.

"Little bit of orange, Harry?" he offers, holding the morsel to his lips.  They open absent-mindly, and he deposits the fruit safely. Goodsir chews, still focused mostly on his caribou - Alexander is sure it is a caribou, now, as it is snuffling about the white tablecloth, maybe seeking rare green beneath the snow.  "Good? some more?"  He doesn't really expect a reply, but instead reaches to fill the plate with a few more bites. Harry gets fixated on the little stories he appears to be spinning in his head when he plays, and there is nothing wrong with it - not here, where noone will expect them to sit and be appropriate, for anyone but themselves. Alexander is glad they are learning to master this, too. For a moment, he thinks back to the first such evening, where he'd tried to take Harry to the table, fetch him for dinner, a dinner they had all eagerly awaited, Goodsir included. Yet when Alexander had picked him up and away from his toys and deep focus, Harry had unexpectedly begun to wail, with an urgency that had them all equally baffled and worried. Silna had been there, thankfully, and she'd handled it like as if it were no mystery to her. Goodsir had calmed, laying across her lap on the recliner, curled against her as she hummed and rocked him, his fingers clenching rhythmically on a smooth figurine she'd procured from a pocket. They talked, after - of course they did. Harry had stumbled through his sentences, explaining how he felt tethered to an activity at times, and as a child, would often.

But why would it matter?

It doesn't, now, Alexander muses as he feeds another bite to his friend. Nothing matters in this except happiness, and looking around the room he sees it:  John, attentively cutting bite-sized pieces for Henry, who is waiting with a cup of milk clutched in his hands.  Crozier and Fitzjames, bent over a small teacup, Crozier's arm around his beloved James as he watches the child in her arrange the cup neatly on a little lace dolly.  Mr. Jopson, asleep in the armchair, where Crozier left him instead of waking him to ask for tea, after the loyal man spent all morning watching over the three little ones.  Alexander smiles to himself, and he smiles even more when the caribou walks up onto his arm, where it is safe and where it is home.


End file.
